How the Other Half Lives (Or Doesn't) 2

Part Two: Through the Looking Glass



So, as mentioned, I went to the ER whilst in Denver.  Then I went to the pharmacy, then went home, exhausted, and slept.
The next day, Peyton and I had a grand ol' time at the Children's Museum, though I was sluggish and a much less hands-on aunt than I like to be.  By that evening I was feeling flu-ish and put myself to bed at 6pm.  When I woke up a few hours later, it was like I was walking on the bottom of a swimming pool.  Everything hurt and I was in slow-motion.  When I located a thermometer, it said I had a fever of 103F.  Now, the financial panic from the day before hadn't quite worn off, but I never get fevers that high and I was scared.  So my hero of a sister drove me to Yet Another ER to be admitted.    The front end of that process, this time, was mercifully fast.  I was whisked to a room to don a paper mask and near-paper dress and given only one sheet on my bed because my fever was so high.

If you were to Google Map my house in Portland, you'd have to zoom in very closely to avoid seeing the big ol' hospital right down the street.  I've grown up rollerblading in its parking garages (not strictly allowed), lunching with Mom in its cafeteria, swiping its draw-string pants to use as durable, comfy pajamas.  I'm not scared of hospitals in the slightest.  In fact, I always feel a bit comforted knowing that I'm about to get care for whatever ailment I'm suffering from.  Again this ties back to my identity as a scientist, an educator and a generally curious person - I find the not knowing the hardest part.  So when there's a team of folks working on what it is that's making me feel crappy, I tend to feel less crappy just knowing that.

I will admit, though: I was a little nervous.

I've had blood drawn before, but this time I was out of the exam room when they brought in all the equipment.  Seeing all the empty tubes and latex ties laid out there just so on that tiny silver table was a bit unsettling, as was my phlebotomist probing and probing and probing my right arm before finally striking it rich in my left and saying, "I always seem to pick the wrong arm!  Ha!"  (Note to direct caregivers: though it may be humanizing when you admit to your mistakes and shortcomings and nervousnesses, don't.  It doesn't encourage confidence.  Fallibly human is not what I need you to be right now.)  As I watched her push and pull the tiny hollow tube back and forth right under my skin, all I could think is, "My mom would kick your ass right now."

I also got an IV - my first one. (Mazel tov!)  Did you know that when they pump in a booster syringe of whatever (in my case, anti-nausea meds then narcotics), you can feel it?  I didn't.  I never thought to ask.  But you can.  The liquid going in is cooler than body temp, so it's like a tiny, rushing, flowing feeling happening right in your arm - a river from far away - the Colorado viewed from the Grand Canyon rim.

It was so weird to be a patient, privy to all the bother a patient is.  The waxy feeling of the sealant over the IV site, the scratchy sheets, the Oxygen monitor that beeps at you for no reason.  Having to pee and being so hooked up to things that you're not sure what to do about that.  Then, when you finally notify someone (you have to notify someone in order to pee), having so much equipment to roll with you through the hallways that you feel like some sort of one-man-band.  And then you have to hold your gown shut the whole time because the tie in the back is broken.

Again, I'm a dilettante in terms of the patient experience.  I did this for one evening, and had to suffer the inconveniences and indignities for just that long.  But it was strange to be on this side of the bed rails:

 instead of this one:

One constant through all this: I'm connected to (and damn thankful for) my family.  At the same time that I was in an adjustable bed in Colorado, Dad was fitfully dozing in Oregon after his own minor terrifying procedure.  And it was great to have Michele there supporting me, doing her homework, trying to curl up in that tiny chair and rest for a bit.  As a patient, that was the best part.  That and the percocet.